


you make me crazy, you make me wild

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Skarsgard and Liboiron think that the threesome was much more about getting the two guys together than it was their interest in Miranda. Skarsgard says the "love was just between Roman and Peter," and quips that Miranda was "the third wheel."</i> (<a href="http://www.zap2it.com/blogs/hemlock_grove_season_2_threesome_was_for_roman_and_peter_say_stars-2014-07">x</a>)</p><p>"This isn't about me," Miranda tells Peter. "It never was."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make me crazy, you make me wild

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially how I hope the threesome went.
> 
> Warnings for excessive use of run-on sentences and italics/parentheses/etc. (+ a ridiculously schmoopy ending). Title from "American" by Lana Del Rey.

“Well? Are you coming or not?”

Their eyes meet— because it’s still second nature, even after so many months apart— but they can’t help each other with this one, Peter realizes. They have to decide for themselves whether to damn the consequences or keep clinging to this fragile truce that threatens to shatter beneath the weight of things unsaid.

So Peter chooses.

He’s got tears in his eyes, bruises across his chest and all he can do is follow. This is what he wants, he thinks, he doesn’t know— he doesn’t _know_ , and that’s never scared him quite as much as it does now.

For all his reckless abandon (when it doesn’t count, when it doesn’t matter), Roman hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t want (he does, he does want, even if he hasn’t been honest with himself about what, yet)— it’s that taking that first step feels too much like admitting defeat, like giving in.

Desire wins out over fear, though he’ll never tell Peter that those first steps mattered more than all of Miranda’s words combined.

(Then again, he’ll never need to.)

He follows them up the stairs, lingering in the doorway of his own room until Miranda reaches out a hand, gesturing for him to come closer. Her fingers are splayed across Peter’s chest, the warmth that beats beneath; she kisses him even as Roman takes her hand, trying not to watch, trying not to want.

She faces Roman next, fits her hands on his hips and leans up to press her lips to his. “Beautiful,” she murmurs against his mouth, leading him to the bed until his knees hit the edge. He sits, and Miranda turns back to Peter. She reaches for his hand, pulls him closer, presses against his back and whispers into his hair. “Wild.”

He goes to his knees in front of Roman without another word.

It’s the first time Roman meets his eyes since that initial question ( _well?_ ), and Peter’s taken aback by the sharp edge of his gaze. It’s not refusal or hostility lurking behind impossible green— it’s fear, and suddenly Peter realizes just how deep his disappearance cut.

Miranda’s climbed onto the bed behind Roman, and this time her lips are against his neck, whispering so low that Peter can’t make out her words over the rush of blood in his ears. He puts a hand on Roman’s knee to steady himself, watches his eyes darken, opens his mouth to speak—

—and is cut off by Roman’s lips against his own, a kiss that’s more a question than any sort of answer.

It’s light, quick, nothing like he would’ve expected— and still Peter chases after Roman when he pulls away, uncertainty and a darker sort of hunger written across his face. Miranda’s watching almost anxiously, lower lip between her teeth, touching the small of Roman’s back as Peter drags his hand up Roman’s thigh and pulls him in for another kiss— a real kiss, openmouthed and desperate, apologizing and asking permission all at once.

Peter’s lips are insistent against Roman’s this time, tongue between his teeth, fingers knotted in his hair, but Roman gives as good as he gets. He pulls Peter as close as he can, closer, kissing him like he doesn’t need to breathe ( _oh,_ Peter thinks), like he doesn’t need anything but this.

Peter tries to press even closer, letting loose a frustrated growl when he realizes he can’t. He breaks away to push Roman back on the bed, straddle his hips and lean down to kiss him properly, deeply, his lanky hair hanging in curtains around them, hiding them from Miranda’s view.

Shit. Miranda.

It takes all of Peter’s extensive willpower and then some to pull away from Roman’s lips, to ignore the broken noise that escapes his throat, the cold hands that slip just beneath his shirt. He shivers, presses his hips down against Roman’s but glances over at Miranda— still watching them, but this time she looks content, or perhaps a bit hungry herself.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she tells Peter, catching his eye before he can say a word. “This isn’t about me. It never was.” Still she leans forward to kiss him, then Roman, lingering for just a moment before she pulls back. “I do have one suggestion, though,” she offers, tone tinged with amusement at their identically expectant expressions. “Fewer clothes?”

She tugs at the hem of Peter’s shirt and Roman’s hands slip further across his skin, lips curving into a smile. Peter meets his gaze, quirks an eyebrow, says, “Well, then, I suppose we should give the lady what she wants.” He tugs his shirt over his head in one smooth motion— practically second nature by now, and Roman’s seen him without his clothes before, but never like this, never to _touch_. He traces long fingers reverently over Peter’s chest, through the dark dusting of hair and against the darker tattoo, feeling Peter tremble beneath his touch. His eyelids slip shut for a moment before he comes back to himself, fingers wrapping around Roman’s wrists to hold him still. “Hey, you too, man,” and Roman sighs, sitting up just enough to pull off his own shirt and drop it on the floor.

The sensation of skin on skin makes each kiss, each touch more intense, and they’ve both been hard in their jeans for what feels like forever. Peter’s panting when they break apart, Roman’s lips bruised, ravaged, pupils blown, but for the first time in months, it’s not blood he craves.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely there, hands on the buckle at the front of Peter’s jeans, and it takes Peter tremendous restraint not to roll his eyes down at Roman. “What am I gonna say, no?”

Roman grins, and Miranda’s breath catches in her throat. It’s the first time she’s seen him genuinely _happy_ , and he’s stunning, looking every bit like the king of the universe he was born to be.

His long fingers undo Peter’s jeans deftly, pushing them down along with his boxers, and then he’s sitting up once more, tugging Peter forward until he’s straddling Roman’s chest, the mere proximity making Peter’s cock jump. Tentative but determined, Roman wraps a hand around the base as he leans in to drag his tongue across the head. Peter and Miranda moan in unison, and Roman’s smiling once more as he reads their reaction as the encouragement it is, pressing even closer to take Peter between his lips.

A long, low sound escapes from the back of Peter’s throat as he watches Roman through hooded eyes. Miranda’s close, one hand on Peter’s back as she urges him just a bit forward, murmuring, “He can take it, he wants it, just look at him, look how eager he is,” and Peter can’t help it, presses in, only pulls back when he feels his cock hit the back of Roman’s throat.

Roman’s mouth slides off with a soft pop and Peter has to stifle another groan at the way he looks— pale cheeks flushed, mouth spit slick and shining, and Peter leans forward once more, feeding his cock between Roman’s lips, feeling his tongue curl around the head, just this side of _not enough_.

He pulls back and presses in a few times more, amazed at the amount of control Roman is giving him, stunned at how much Roman can _take_. He’s practically fucking his mouth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other in Roman’s hair, and Peter can’t take his eyes off of him, can’t quite explain the thrill he feels each time a flash of green meets his gaze.

“Do you want to come like this?” Miranda is asking him, and her fingers on his skin bring him back, at least until Roman swallows around his cock, and _fuck, yes_ he wants to come like this, but no— “No,” he tells her, or tries to, because this isn’t about him getting off, it’s about _them_ , it’s about everything they can’t say with words and this seems like as good a place as any to start.

He sits back, far enough that Roman’s mouth can’t reach him, trailing fingers down his pale chest, looking him in the eye, saying, “I want to fuck you,” and he meant to _ask_ , not assume, but Roman’s surging up to meet his lips, whispering, “Fuck yes,” and oh, _well_.

Peter slides off Roman to discard his jeans properly, glancing back at the bed to see Miranda and Roman making out lazily, his hands moving beneath her shirt. She drags herself away to pull it off, and Peter takes advantage of the moment to re-join them on the bed, palming deliberately over Roman’s still-clothed cock. “Get your pants off, asshole,” he grins, leaning in to kiss Miranda himself, making short work of her tight jeans. It’s only moments later that he feels Roman’s bare skin press against his back, and he turns just enough to capture Roman’s lips with his own. Miranda shudders beside them, Peter’s fingers having gone still between her legs, but she pushes them away and curls up against a pillow, more than content to watch.

“How d’you wanna do this?” Peter asks, and Roman shrugs, lithe movements even more graceful without clothes to hinder him. “How d’you want me?” he asks, and, well, fuck.

“I want to see you,” Peter tells him. “I want to see your face when I make you come,” and Roman shuts his eyes, opens them slowly. “On my back?”

“No,” Peter says, turning to meet Miranda’s gaze for just a moment. She bites her lip, nods, and he turns back to Roman. “I think you should ride me.”

His hand is on Roman’s waist before he can recoil, before he can look too closely at what Peter’s asking. He knows why Roman is reluctant, even if Roman doesn’t, or won’t admit that he does— he’s putting him in a vulnerable position, giving him control and giving it up all at once, and they both know better than most the value of control. But “it’s us,” Peter tells him, “It’s _me_ ,” and he doesn’t need to reassure him that _it’s okay_ , at least not in so many words. He kisses Roman, feels him yield beneath his lips, his tongue, strokes a hand low across his stomach, down his thighs, until Roman’s trembling, pressing Peter into the bed with hands around his wrists and kisses that threaten to draw blood.

“Tell me you have lube,” Peter asks, breathless, when they finally part; it’s Roman’s turn to roll his eyes, turn toward the nightstand—

—and Miranda’s a step ahead, handing him the tube with the smallest of smirks. Roman half-smiles in return, looking down at Peter as he slicks up his fingers. “Happy?”

“Happier once I’m in you,” Peter responds, but he won’t deny the spark that twists in his gut as he watches Roman sink back on his own fingers, eyes shut tight, his free hand braced on Peter’s chest. Peter wraps a hand around Roman’s cock, listens to him hiss with pleasure; feels slick fingers trail deliberately over his skin as he pulls out, and there’s no way he’s anywhere near ready but Peter can see the desire for pain that still lurks somewhere at the edge of those green eyes. “Condom?” he asks, but he knows Roman’s answer even before he shakes his head. “Good,” he murmurs, feeling Roman lift his hips, reach back to take Peter’s cock in hand, guide him inside, and— “Fuck, oh, _fuck, Roman._ ”

He takes it all, down to the base, his mouth a thin line of pain but his eyes are still on Peter’s, still watching him— for approval, or maybe something else altogether, and the weight of his gaze leaves Peter even more desperate than before.

Peter’s fingers dig into Roman’s hips, urging him to move— he lifts up, sinks back, shallower this time, then again, and _there it is_ , a gasp escaping his lips, his cock jumping between their bodies. Peter pulls Roman down to kiss him, hungry and wild, feeling Miranda tremble beside them. Her thighs shake as her fingers move between them, biting back moans as she watches them together. “Gorgeous,” she tells them, barely a whisper, and Peter’s hand leaves Roman’s side to trace the slope of her neck. “Likewise,” he responds, her moans vibrating beneath his fingers— until Roman starts to move, _really_ move, and Peter forgets everything but the slender, broken, beautiful boy in his lap.

He starts to thrust up, meeting Roman halfway until Roman is shuddering above, clenching around him, moaning almost hysterically— “Shit, you’re so fucking _deep,_ ” and Roman takes Peter’s hand, presses it against his stomach, lower, and Peter gets the hint, wraps his fingers around Roman’s cock and strokes, but he knows neither of them will quite be able to come like this, and fuck if he doesn’t want to feel those impossible legs wrap around his waist.

He flips them without pulling out, sinks his cock deeper into Roman and kisses him, relentless, tasting his moans on the tip of his tongue. (He kisses hard but fucks harder, hitching Roman’s legs around his waist, feeling him bear down against each thrust and tighten his grip on Peter’s arm, fingers twisting desperately in Peter’s hair.)

“I’m so close— _so close,_ c’mon, Peter, _fuck,_ ” and Peter reaches between them, lets Roman fuck up into his fist, anything to pull him closer to the edge.

The bed shakes beneath their thrusts and Miranda’s trembling limbs, one of her hands curled in the sheets as she watches, _so close_ herself but she wants to _see_ them lose control with each other the way they never quite could with her.

Peter thrusts as deep as he can, pressing his hips to Roman’s each time, digging his nails into Roman’s skin and hearing his moans grow ragged, watching his eyes start to slip shut. He hits that spot again, and again— once more and Roman goes still, spilling over Peter’s hand, his bruised, beautiful mouth open in a silent cry, eyes shining as they blink open after a long moment—

—and it’s torture for Peter, feeling Roman clench against him, but then those legs tighten around his waist, his thrusts grow erratic and finally, _finally_ he lets go. He comes, hips flush with Roman’s, and _oh,_ he _can_ get deeper, and if he could possibly get hard again the sound of Roman’s final broken moan would send him over the edge once more.

Peter pulls out slowly, wincing as he does so— the sheets, their bodies are a mess, and all he wants to do is kiss that lazy smirk off Roman’s face. He leans in, but a soft noise stops him in his tracks, a quiet reminder that oh, they’re not done yet.

Miranda’s fingers, thighs are soaked; she looks at them with an expression equal parts sheepish and defiant, and Roman, ever the gentleman, takes her wrist in hand and lifts her fingers to his lips. Roman’s tongue traces over her skin as Peter slips between her legs with a wicked grin; she moans at the scratch of his beard on her thighs, and it’s not long before she’s coming again, her noises muffled against Roman’s mouth.

(It’s “thank you,” Miranda knows, but it’s also “goodbye”— after all, this isn’t about her. It never was.)

She won’t let them talk, after. “Save it,” she tells them— for tomorrow, for the cold light of day, for everything they don’t want to, _have to_ face, because if not, then what was the point? (Still she watches them kiss one last time, slow, lazy, a different kind of desperation in the way their tongues touch, lips meet, a hunger that hasn’t yet been sated, solutions that haven’t yet been found.)

She slips between their bodies, sprawling haphazardly across the bed. Their fingers intertwine against her bare skin, tracing every intricate line of her tattoos until sleep overtakes them at last.  
  


* * *

  
(“Unexpected,” they’ll say the next morning, but that’s a lie. “Inevitable” is more like it, from Roman’s first _what did it feel like?_ to the last tears they’d shed. Even after months apart, they fall back into old patterns easily— too easily, perhaps.

But now the first thing Peter feels when he turns, turns back, is Roman’s hands on his skin ( _it was fucking beautiful_ ); now when Roman wakes with a start he curls into Peter, because he’s _there_ , feels him shaking too ( _we have the same dreams_ ). They’re still completely fucking lost, but _I could’ve never done it if I hadn’t had you there with me_ , and that, Peter thinks, that says it all.

He whispers those words down on his knees, pressed against Roman’s back, into his hair; he’s not sure Roman believes them, but he’s starting to, laughing a quiet “shee-it” against Peter’s skin as his lips curl into something resembling a smile.

They’d both said it: Lynda, Roman, _you can’t walk away from this_ ( _you’re so good at it, though_ ), but he watches Roman fall asleep with Nadia in his arms, resists the urge to press his lips to Roman’s skin, and he knows they’re right. Remembers the echo of Roman’s footsteps on the stairs behind him, the thrill that had sparked in his veins— they still _want_ , and they’re still not sure what, but they’re so much closer to figuring it out than they were before.

They might lose control (hunger, anger and anything in between); hell, they might lose everything, but this time— this time, at least, they can cling to each other through the freefall.)


End file.
